“Only that two others were with your son when he entered Sara’s condominium, a young man we believe to be his friend Chance, and a young woman we’ve not yet identified. It’s also possible that Ken Burklow made an appearance. I’m dragging my feet on that, but Martinez is foaming about it. I think Ken will be okay, though. The witness is barely twelve, and every white man over fifty looks more or less the same. The rest of it, though … The wheels have to turn.”
“Those unfortunate wheels, yeah.”
“Do you know where Gibby is now? You don’t have to answer. I’m here as your friend. It’s just that, well, I was there on the day of his christening.”
“He’s upstairs. Asleep, I hope.”
“You might want to talk to him. Prep him for what’s coming.”
“I’ll give him tonight. Best for both of us, I think.”
“If Martinez asks…”
“You were never here.”
“Well.” Captain Martin offered an expression of unusual helplessness.
“Yeah.” French patted him on the shoulder, and guided him to the front door. “That about sums it up.”
33
Sara was awake, but afraid to open her eyes. If she did, it would be real: this place, the helplessness. But hours had passed. Her knuckles were bloody, her fingernails torn.
How long since she’d risen from that horrible, skinny, metal-railed bed?
Beyond hunger and thirst, she had no way to tell.
Where was he?
That was the worst.
What was this place? What did he want?
Him.
He.
Asshole motherfucker.
That was all she had, rage and fear, back and forth. Tears had fallen and dried, but that was over. She’d decided. She looked for more of that courage, and a sound escaped her lips, the smallest thing.
I will not be weak.
I will not die like Tyra.
* * *
Reece was behind the wall when she made that first sound. And the angle was perfect! The light on her face. Small darkness where one leg pressed against the other. It would happen soon, he thought.
She would stop pretending.
She would open her eyes.
When the moment came, Reece felt a pounding in his chest; and when she moved, he was behind the walls. She was not panicked as she’d been before, no tears or drama as she drifted from room to room touching the walls or opening drawers. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank it down. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, and he was there for that, too, behind the mirror, and close on the other side, watching as she stared at her reflection, bare inches between them. She would submit, in the end—they all did—but would she choose to do so? His was such a simple desire: to know as other men knew, to be drawn down, invited, to close his eyes and stab out the sorrows. He saw how it could be with Sara, the yes in her throat, and a needful rise, the velvet hinge of her un-scissored legs.
She was perfect.
She would be different.
He closed his eyes to imagine it better.
* * *
In the darkness beyond the walls of Reece’s house, three men sat in the back of a windowless van. Zachary Byrd was in charge. He had the scars, the clients, the money. The other two were hired hands, good with knife or gun, and willing to kill anything for the right price. Wilkinson and Pugh charged five thousand apiece, and Byrd was happy to pay it. His contract with X was for a half-million dollars, plus a fifty thousand kicker if he made Reece beg, and got it on tape. Of course, Reece was supposed to be some kind of tough-nut killer. He worked for X, so maybe he was. Either way …
“Why can’t we just shoot this guy?”
Wilkinson had small eyes and a wound of a mouth. Frowning at the question, Byrd said, “You know why.”
“The client says slow and bloody, I get it. But why does he care?”
Byrd thumbed a knife’s edge, and sheathed it. “I guess this Reece guy stepped on the wrong toes. What does it matter?”
“The wrong toes. Ha!”
That was Pugh, as thoughtful as a murdered cat, but good with locks and alarms. Byrd sheathed a second knife, frowning. “Listen up, and let me be clear. We do this like I said. Screw it up, and I’ll peel your face like a potato.”
Wilkinson was smart enough to nod, but Pugh was still grinning like his dick was a jack-in-the-box and Miss America was turning the crank.
Byrd scowled at them both, but on the inside was smiling.
One night’s work …
Half a million plus …
* * *
Reece had always had a powerful imagination. He could look at a woman and know how they would be together, whether she wanted it or not. If the target was a man, he knew exactly how the man would scream, and what bribe or debasement he might offer up to make the pain stop. For Sara, he imagined the time she would need to adjust and accept. If it took weeks, that would be fine. Even months. It wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she moved and smiled, something about the soul, and Reece had never cared about the soul. It would require patience, and for Reece that was hard.
For Sara, though …
He played it out: the carrot, the stick. Almost blissful, he opened his eyes.
Amber lights were flashing in the silence.
Someone was on the grounds!
In a sudden panic, Reece spun from the two-way glass, crabbing sideways in a mad dash for the security room. He took the next corner too fast, tore skin on a nail, ignored it. At the monitors, he bent over the controls.
He’d been so careful!
But the cameras didn’t lie: three men over the wall, and moving fast, single file as they neared the house.
Not cops, though …
If cops knew about Reece, they’d have come in tactical squads.
Simple thieves?
He discarded the thought as soon as it surfaced. The house was lit up like Christmas, three cars in the driveway.
Private contractors, then.
A three-man crew.
Reece’s first thought was X, but X didn’t know about the girl. He couldn’t.
Other enemies?
Reece did know violent men, but, like him, they ghosted in the cracks, and killed in quiet places. So maybe it was X. In the end, it didn’t matter. This was Reece’s home, and his home was a killing place. So he watched them come, three men, moving like pros, one directing the others. They drew down in a patch of cover, but there was no such thing as cover, not here. Every camera was night-capable, with intersecting lines of sight. Reece watched for another moment, then thumbed a switch, unbolting the side door.
* * *
Byrd was feeling cocky. An easy climb, up and over the wall. No dogs or automatic lights. When Wilkinson and Pugh settled into the darkness beside him, Byrd gestured with an open hand. “West-side corner.”
He went first, and the others followed, crossing a final stretch of open ground, then settling into darkness beneath a pair of French windows. Pugh grinned in the gloom. “Walk in the park.”
But Byrd had checked the windows, and knew better. “Polycarbonate windows. Steel frames and armored hinges.”
“Bulletproof? Come on, man.”
“Nothing has changed.” Byrd cut off the complaint, but he saw the look that passed between the other men. Armored glass cost money, lots of it. Now they worried about other countermeasures, greater risk. “We knew he was rich when we took the job. I’m sure he has nice furniture, too. So stay cool. Do the work.” He gestured north along the wall. “Side door. Forty feet.” When they got there, he said, “Pugh.”